


Way Past Irony

by dropout_ninja



Category: Transformers: Siege, Transformers: War for Cybertron Trilogy (Cartoon)
Genre: Aftermath of Violence, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst with a Happy Ending, Character Death Fix, Developing Relationship, During Canon, Fix-It, Friendship/Love, Going Neutral, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Medicine, Mild Language, Post-Canon Fix-It, Serious Injuries, Stream of Consciousness, fluid pov, the ship that came out of nowhere
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-02
Updated: 2020-08-02
Packaged: 2021-03-06 01:40:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25675237
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dropout_ninja/pseuds/dropout_ninja
Summary: When the slab above him lifted off and the morning light hit him in all its paled glory, he meant every word he said.  If this scavenger or autobot or whatever the mech was planned to kill him, it was too late.  He'd been dead the moment the first rod had cut so near his spark chamber.But, as it turned out, the mech didn't take the inevitable for an answer.
Relationships: Ratchet/Impactor
Comments: 10
Kudos: 64





	Way Past Irony

**Author's Note:**

> Transformers and its characters do not belong to me. All rights go to their respective owners.
> 
> Who else ever expected this to be a ship? Yeah. Me neither. Anyway, I hope you enjoy this little WFC: Siege oneshot!

This was almost familiar.

Coming online in an unrecognizable place, covered in marks and aching with pain...

And the medic. _The_ medic. Sitting nearby, working near his legs where they were supported by a berth. 

Huh. He thought he'd died. He'd been prepared to die. It wasn't the first time he'd prepared for it, but he really had been ready for it to be the last.

There'd been so much more acceptance about it than his earlier dance with death that orn, now that he thought about it.

* * *

Time passed.

And passed.

And flickered by too slow.

And wasted by too fast. 

He was going to die. The wait let him live his last moments, stretched out, conclude unfinished thoughts. The wait let him grow dully furious from the pain that he just wished he could end.

But this position on the rubble didn't allow him to. He couldn't move for his weapons to hurry this process along; the rods jamming through his chassis had him as pinned now as they had from the first moment he'd landed through them.

Frag, he'd always figured death would be faster. 

Even in the mines- a slow death sentence rather than any life at all- he'd expected the actual moment of deactivation to be painful and then just...done. None of this waiting. 

The battle finished. He heard the noises of clean up dimly through the pain stabbing through him and crushing down. Breems passed. He heard Megatron's announcement on his death and the promised vengeance that losing him would wreak. More breems passed. The night cycle gradually turned to morning. Jours, was what it was. Far too long to be pinned down dying. It just stretched on.

On.

On.

Still online. Why? 'cause he was a stubborn fragger. Little good it did him. But even when he tried to let his mind slip away into oblivion, it resisted. It insisted on sitting in an agonized frame and waiting for a slow death to finally just finish. 

And that was how he expected to go out.

Slowly.

Painfully slowly.

Slowly enough that death itself felt fast approaching and he felt he'd accomplished so little, done so little, found so little, and now it was too late- It was a cruel crawl of time and death refused to answer pleas of speed.

Eventually, he imagined, it would stop refusing. 

Eventually he'd fade out and finally leave the feeling of rusted spikes driven through him; one just near enough to his spark chamber to hurt like slag but far enough to not be mercifully immediate in lethality, the other leaking energon slowly near his side. Slabs of metal from the battle covered him and pressed against crushed legs, pressed against the poles, pressed pressed pressed overhead so that all noise was muted and all the groans he made went unheard by his allies as they scoured for his remains and denounced him dead.

They'd done it near him. Found his arm, from the muted sounds of it. Mourned and raged on his death while he lay in the slow-coming dread that they could not hear him arguing otherwise. They would leave while he was still alive and their declaration would become a self fulfilling prophecy. He would die buried alive, like he was destined to as a miner.

It was undeniably despairing and not even that sickening wave of emotion dragged the others back for him.

So he was resigned to dying mute, unable to do so much as proclaim his own continued life even as that life slipped away painfully slowly.

It was morning now. Would he last until the evening? He hoped not. But he could do nothing to stop or prolong death throes. They were inevitable and he knew it the moment his allies had left him for dead unknowingly. 

So when the slab above him lifted off and the morning light hit him in all its paled glory, he meant every word he said. If this scavenger or autobot or whatever the mech was planned to kill him, it was too late. He'd been dead the moment the first rod had cut so near his spark chamber. 

But, as it turned out, the mech didn't take the inevitable for an answer.

Impactor's first discovery of this fact came as he was loaded on top of the crate of first aid kits and scavenged parts and wheeled gently from the scene of his should-be death.

**_**

The ensuing travel back was full of jolting movements and pain. It was enough stress on his frame to finally put him out of it. Getting stabbed in multiple locations and then crushed wasn't enough, but he supposed it was solitary in terms of movements. This jostled every wound and damn it all but it _hurt_. It hurt enough that his processor retreated to some haze of pain that didn't feel the cart's movements or...well, anything all that situational. 

Apparently that didn't mean he'd died. Not if the cave around him when he did online his optics spoke for anything. 

Alright.

So he'd survived.

So he'd been lugged to a pretty crowded cave by an autobot who'd proceeded to keep him surviving. 

If it was any consolation for his wounded pride, he still hurt like slag. 

* * *

He'd been pretty unsure what to do then too. The entire situation had been new and completely unexpected. In a way, it was probably just as unexpected as this was. But its presence in hindsight had lost that element of surprise and now he could only compare that hindsight to the confusion of the present. In this lens, the present had him much more lost.

Even when he'd gotten the answers for his surroundings, he still felt offput by it. The planet was gone. There was no way to get back to it. They were floating in space in a ship that hardly had unlimited fuel and was stock full of autobots. There wasn't even a clear direction for any of those autobots to take.

So yes. He felt justified in thinking this situation was even more unexpected than the last. At least the last had some basis in normal reality.

Still, as weird as this was, at least there was some comforting familiarity:

He hurt like hell. 

He was confused as hell.

He had the same medic. 

The last one gave him all the direction he needed to find where, exactly, he fit into this autobot mess. He'd found that direction soon after coming to in that cave medbay and the latest life saving operation had hardly changed his mind on what he'd decided in there.

* * *

He was still berth-bound when they cleared the air. It was a pretty stupid thing to not know what was going on with his surroundings, so Impactor engaged in a little bit of data mining.

He'd never been good at subtlety or scouting, but he thought he was doing a decent job.

For one, he knew where he was. A cave. Outfitted to a medbay. Full of people. Only some of which wore the same badge that the medic here did. 

For another, he knew who the medic was. The name? Ratchet. It was a name he'd recognized, although his rattled processor took embarrassingly long to put it together.

While Ratchet finished up on his legs and moved to clean his tools, Impactor felt out for more information.

"You're an autobot. A soldier?" he grunted out. Talking was a pain. Everything was. Although it was less painful pain than it could've been. His unexpected savior had done a good job with that.

"I was one," the medic said; the tone and his head, positioned to stare at the tools he was cleaning, felt like dismissal. "I'm just a medic now."

Short answers. He was a short answer sort of mech. To that point, actions were better than fluff; actions, like finding enemies (even if Ratchet himself insisted he had no enemies among the injured) and pulling them back from the brink of death. It was almost admirable, really. Impactor had gotten so used to his leader's fancied words that replaced the former short bluntness that Megatron had once had fresh out of the mines. It was rather relieving to talk to someone who didn't bother mincing words, enemy or not.

Heh. Enemy.

If Ratchet, the mech who'd ignored his defeatist anger and gone straight to surgery for him, was his enemy, what did that make the allies that had left him buried under rubble? 

Impactor wasn't sure he wanted to think about that right now. Instead, he argued.

"Ratchet? No, I know that name. You're an engineer. Weapons technology."

A famous technician, at that. Responsible for hundreds of deaths to brutally effective weapons.

"Not anymore," the mech cut him off crisply. "And if you want to keep on functioning, you better start believing that fact. This is a medbay. I'm a medic. The only war in here comes in the form of those injuries that brought all my patients to me."

If it wasn't, he'd be dead by now. 

If the war mattered in here, he'd have been questioned and then, if the autobot was feeling generous, killed instead of left to bleed out slowly.

This cave was a little pocket of unreality. He should be planning on attacking or forcing surrender on every autobot inside here. Instead, he listened to his medic give him ground rules on helping the other patients- something about 'pulling weight'- and his own repairs were quickly insisting he cave to those rules.

It wasn't like it was treason or anything.

There just wasn't a war inside this medbay.

**_**

First aid was something he'd picked up long ago. It was a necessary skill to have in the mines and it was just as necessary as a soldier. 

Could he give t-cog surgery or life-saving operations? Frag no. But the basic stuff...He could handle it. By the time he was cleared to get off his berth, he was already handling it. Ratchet didn't bend in his rules, but it wasn't just that. The mech had too many patients here. He had too many patients and only one of him. 

It was too much for one medic to handle, even if Ratchet kept his cool. 

The last thing Impactor wanted to do was move around. He had gaping cracks in his chest and indents all over. The most tempting thing would be to just lay still and allow himself to get waited on by this idiot autobot medic. For whatever reason, it wasn't all that tempting. Instead, he'd gotten up before the ache of the repairs had even dulled and limped around the other seats and tables-turned-berths to check on the basic first aid he could even understand to check on.

If it surprised Ratchet, he didn't show it. The medic merely did his job and, when they crossed paths, he'd look at Impactor's work and either give it appraisal or correct a technique. Never with snide pride, just...Well. It was the type of correction that didn't bother him; the type that just would make for helpful skills to have later on. And the appraisal, when it came, was certainly _something_ as well. It was genuine. It was Ratchet in relief over not having to do extra work when his workload was already heavy. It was unspoken relief that the decepticon patient wasn't pitching a fit over working on autobots and neutrals. It was...it was...

It wasn't something he'd really seen in a long while. They'd all gotten too brusque, too chilled, too sadistic in his unit to bother with this quiet pride, quiet approval, this acceptance of correction- this peace that a cave of injured mechs somehow had found. 

No, he had no delusions about giving up everything he was to join this little clinic. The place was doomed. Eventually it'd be found and shut down one way or the other. He wasn't a medic and he never was going to be. But it was- he wasn't sure. A glimmer of light, of a kind- something that stuck out as hopeful in the midst of a never ending war that was killing Cybertron alongside all of Cybertron's populace. 

**_**

"What happens if you don't come back?" 

The question was a little more forward than one that should have been delivered to a technical enemy he'd only just met. But his own curiosity wasn't going to sit back on it. This clinic was a light, he'd determined, and that was because of Ratchet. It was all because of him. So what happened to that light if Ratchet got himself killed?

The medic paused in his path. The cart of first aid kits and empty space (waiting for scavenged supplies) sat still behind him. Impactor had arms crossed, even if the pose had said arms rubbing up against one of his most significant cuts.

Ratchet's mouth parted in thought before he made to answer.

"Then I expect the stronger mechs here to set up a defense and keep the rest secure."

The idea of a dozen mechs sitting in the cave with him waiting day after day for their medic to return cut at him.

"Is this a rule too?" Impactor asked. "Who are these guards? Does everyone know this plan and have the details ready to act on?"

Despite having been asked three questions, Ratchet didn't stall in his response.

"You," he said. "-and the other stronger mechs here. And you know this plan now. I trust you can figure out details if it comes to it."

He was one of the stronger mechs? He was half slagged!

...It was a nice confidence the medic apparently had for him.

And what was with this 'trust'? Just because he owed the mech his life didn't mean he couldn't still backstab him. Not that he was gonna. Not that the idea was appealing at all. 

"Oh," the decepticon said instead of anything else.

The medic wasn't one to smile, but the small shake of his head almost seemed like a smirk.

"I give it my best everyday when I go out to return to you all," Ratchet reassured before returning to tugging his cart out towards the exit and all the danger that might entail.

Impactor almost called after him. The medic was gone before he could, so his grunted _be safe_ was heard only by himself.

* * *

The other medic had apparently fallen off the ramp before the ship had taken off. He wouldn't exactly know. He'd been in stasis at the time. According to the story, Ratchet had carried him back. There'd been no cart to help distribute his weight for the medic that time. Impactor knew well enough that he was a heavy mech. He should have been left behind. Ratchet had to have been significantly slowed down trying to carry him along. Being slowed meant he couldn't have run as fast, couldn't have kept up with the others as easily as they fled towards the ship- it meant that he could have died just because he was too stubborn to leave his patient behind.

It was fragging admirable, really. But Ratchet just tended to fit that description. He was stubborn, but still willing to be flexible if the situation really demanded it. He hadn't wanted to help the Prime, after all, but he'd done it for the sake of his patients. All of them. Factions didn't mean slag to the medic. Life was what did. 

That was the light, in the end. That was what had been so eye opening. 

For too long, Impactor had gotten swept up into the war. He'd gotten so devoted to faction that he'd gone blind to the oath he'd swore to himself long ago. He'd forgotten Cybertron and seen only decepticons. 

Ratchet wasn't like that. He had a badge, sure, but he was devoted to the life on and of Cybertron. 

He had the values that Impactor's old oath had carried too.

His medbay with its rules and its patients and its hidden safety had reignited that for the former miner. The medic that had carried him off of his scene of death and dragged him to that medbay had reignited that. 

He'd modeled how to find that light, that peace, that Ratchet had found with his medbay.

And even after Impactor had given himself up for death again, Ratchet had kept on showing that stubborn determination to save life. 

Even if it meant hauling his heavy ass to the departing ship's medical room and leaving the planet he loved behind. 

Now, Ratchet was the only medic here because the other one had dropped off the ramp; and wasn't that familiar? The mech was back to being the single competent surgeon in the room. The difference was just how many more patients Ratchet had now. A few dozen in a cave had been overboard enough. The ship had the remaining autobot army on board. 

That was a situation that just screamed _help needed._

And hey- ground rules were ground rules, even if the medbay was in a different location. He'd needed an operation again and that made him a patient again. And he knew what Ratchet expected of his patients.

Even if there'd be more patients to deal with and some of them would lash out because they recognized who he is-who he was, he'd still be doing his part in trying to give the help that the medic here needed with less detrimentally injured patients.

He hadn't expected to live, but he hadn't expected it the first time either. He would adjust to survival despite that expectation. 

* * *

The first time he'd almost died had been in a battle against the autobots. It had involved the very autobot that he'd been forced to put up with for this mission, actually. Mirage. The little coward had waltzed up to their post and then his disguise had fallen and everything had gone to slag. Impactor had gotten launched through rubble and the searing pain of being pinned through his body was matched only by how he could hear the rest of the world declare him dead and mourn for him while he still bled out in agony. 

A few cycles later and Mirage had waltzed into his life again. They'd rather despised each other even as they worked together. Mirage was here for who knew what reason. Impactor was there to protect the mech who'd protected him from bleeding out in the rubble, just so that mech could protect the entire planet by fixing the spacebridge.

Fixing it had been rather like working together in the medbay. Ratchet did the work knowing what he was doing and Impactor just gave it his all despite not understanding his tasks on the technical level one bit. Mirage had even done his part. He'd kept them hidden and safe and almost drained his spark doing it. Impactor almost (almost) didn't despise him after that; without his efforts, Ratchet could have been killed trying to fix this spacebridge.

But then the efforts ran their course. Their cloaking protection fell when Mirage collapsed. His former allies saw their presence and came to attack.

They finished their mission. They finished the spacebridge. 

It felt good to accomplish it.

It felt satisfying to actually feel like he'd played a part in ending the war rather than just prolonging it. 

It was something he'd not have considered if he hadn't been pulled into that strange, dissociated bubble in reality of a medbay by Ratchet. 

This was what it felt like to be the medic, he wagered. This was what living in the light felt like. It wasn't a faction thing, it wasn't even too much of an attitude- frag knew Ratchet was a cranky tempered mech- 

It was about protection and living for that goal, that value, a mission of worth.

It was about dying for that worth.

So when that bolt of energy soared towards the mech who functioned that way for his living, Impactor didn't think twice.

One of them was needed in this world. One of them had to go on and continue helping and fixing and healing and enlightening others, giving them that hope, that peace, that understanding- One of them had to live because _he_ _had_ _to_ _live_. He was worth too much to Impactor. Any other patient would have thought the same, he was sure of it.

Taking the shot for Ratchet hurt as bad as getting impaled had. 

It was just as lethal. 

But this time, there was no waiting to bleed out in growing despair and rage over abandonment and the stupidity of the world.

This time, he grasped for those strains of ecstasy amidst the pain and held close to the fact that he'd died to save the mech that deserved it most as he faded from consciousness.

From consciousness.

Not, in the end, from _life_.

* * *

He woke on an unfamiliar berth in an unfamiliar medbay. That should have been concerning. That _was_ concerning. But when he turned his head (in panic) to get a grasp on his surroundings, he saw the medic sitting in a chair pulled to the berthside. Ratchet was reading a datapad. It was casual. It was so very casual. It was oddly comforting in how casual- how simplistically domestic- a sight it was to see. And he fit into that relaxation. He fit in because he was the one on the berth and the medic had decided that his berth was the one to sit next to and read.

To wait. 

To wait for him to awaken.

But wait. Wasn't he dead? This was a very spark warming scenario to fit in, but his frame still ached far too much for this to be the Allspark. 

Impactor pushed up to lean against the wall behind his head. The movement sent pangs through his chest where the shot had carved all the way through. It must have been a recent enough injury then. Which meant-

"How long?" he asked.

Ratchet set the datapad aside and turned in his seat to look at the berth ridden mech better.

"A cycle. You're awful resilient to have kicked stasis already."

Heh, yeah. Resilience was a good trait for a miner and a better one for a soldier. When he was determined not to die, apparently he'd stay bleeding for a day without his spark guttering out. A cycle ago, he had been ready, though. He'd really expected that to be the end.

And so he questioned it.

"But I died." 

Or gotten extremely close. Good as Ratchet was, he didn't think the medic could resurrect someone. 

"Did you want to?" the other gave him a look that seemed far from impressed. The berth-bound mech shifted in discomfort. It was a very familiar look summoned from a very familiar conversation. They'd discussed this before, the first time. He'd questioned his survival and Ratchet had told him to move on from it. Also to not kill the other patients and whatnot, but it had been the blunt statement on fighting for survival rather than bleeding to death that stuck with him more. It had, after all, been a very uncomfortable conversation. Ratchet, he'd learned from that, did not care for dancing around uncomfortable conversations. In the end, it had just made him more valuable.

"No, I- Well. I did," Impactor said. "For you."

Ratchet started to frown, but the expression caught itself and softened. He'd shifted in his seat again, glancing away and glancing back. Finally, the medic set a servo on the side of the berth near his chair.

"I've had plenty of mechs die on me, for me," Ratchet replied in turn. "Do us both a favor and live instead."

And he would.

He'd do a whole lot for this mech if asked to. That was a weakness, maybe, but he wasn't about to start complaining about it.

**Author's Note:**

> This is told through purposefully choppy writing, but if any parts are too confusing feel free to give me a heads up. Thank you for your time! Please drop a thought or two if you are so inclined


End file.
